


Assassination 101

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-08
Updated: 2004-12-08
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Some experts debate the best ways to kill a President - efficiently.





	Assassination 101

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Assassination 101**

**by: SheilaVR**

**Character(s):** Jed  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Disclaimer:** The established "West Wing" characters are not mine. That should be obvious - never could I invent such wonderful personalities. Certain of the other characters mentioned, however… are real.  
**Summary:** Some experts debate the best ways to kill a President - efficiently.  


Alone in a quiet room, four people sat around a table, and conferred.

The ringleader brought this meeting to order. "All right, let’s go. We’ve been working on this for weeks now. We’ve got to come up with a foolproof plan."

"No loopholes," one of the others added.

"Something original," a second put in.

"Something _spectacular_ ," the third stated.

"Exactly. Something that will never be forgotten." The one in charge stared at the four separate stacks of paper on the table, one stack in front of each co-conspirator. "Something that will immortalize us."

" _Every_ security net has holes. It’s just a matter of time before we find one."

"We’ve all tried this often enough. You’d think we were authorities by now."

"Then it’s high time we proved it."

"The Secret Service has been beaten before."

"Besides, it’s the best way for a President to leave office. Especially _this_ President."

"Amen to that! No tame winding down _here_." A dry chuckle. "He deserves better."

"He deserves to go out with a bang. And I mean a _bang_."

"Hear, hear."

"But it’s not enough to have a dramatic near-miss - or even a success, for that matter. People have killed Presidents in the past. We need something really _unique_."

"And we’re going to find it. No more solo effort. We’ll work together, and we’ll make it _flawless_." The ringleader met each eye. "Each of us has done good work before; it should be interesting to see where things go when we pool our resources. So, what’s taken shape so far? Who wants to go first?"

"I will…"

*****

The enormous Boeing 747 stood gleaming in the sun. The steps had already been rolled into place, the door had already been opened, and the first bodyguards had already exited. The phalanx of soldiers lined up formally, eyes front.

When the President emerged, there were no welcoming notes of "Hail to the Chief" and there were no rousing cheers. This was a military base, not a campaign stop. The troops were in combat fatigues, not formal dress, and their devastating automatic assault weapons pointed at the ground rather than resting on shoulders. At first glance, or even _third_ glance, they all looked as alike as so many peas, and as motionless as so many statues.

Whatever these professionals’ thoughts might be, no hint of them showed. Otherwise, somewhere about two-thirds down the line, one soldier would have surely stood out.

_How I hate this._

_God, how I hate *him.*_

Contrary to protocol, he kept sneaking glances, watching his Commander-in-Chief descend to the tarmac and exchange salutes with the base’s commanding officer.

_He’s not a soldier. He has *no idea* what we go through._

_How can he presume to send my friends into combat?_

The first round of formalities over, Jed Bartlet started walking past the uniformed line, flanked by the base commander and trailed by several Secret Service agents. He smiled at everyone, his stride brisk and confident.

_Arrogant son of a bitch. He’s got no business leading this nation, much less the military._

_He’s a politician. Can’t trust ‘em. Especially *this* one. He’s already proven that._

Every rifle in this official line-up was, of course, loaded; the United States Armed Forces are the President’s first line of defense. The faceless Treasury agents in their black suits and sunglasses are simply double insurance.

_Those are *pals* of mine over in Kundu. And now some of them are going to die. Because of a *political* decision._

_How DARE he manipulate lives like this?_

It would be perfectly natural for the Service to feel nervous in any locale with guns - even guns on _their_ side - much less guns carried so openly. They could hardly deny the security assistance that the military always provided… but that didn’t mean they actually _trusted_ the military. Accidental discharge is always possible.

_They shouldn’t be over there at all. That fight has nothing to do with the United States._

_Why should we die for them? There’s nothing in it for us. Let them sort out their own problems. We’re not the world’s police._

Of course, these premier bodyguards in the world would still have no reason to suspect any one soldier… even a soldier whom the President was going to pass within two feet of in another few seconds…

##### This has got to be stopped. Someone ought to do something.

##### If only *I* had the nerve to do something…

##### Do WHAT?

Bartlet kept coming closer, his laughter carrying ahead as he chatted with his escorting flag officer in perfect comfort. Why should he ever feel the slightest concern, surrounded by members of the mightiest army in human history - _his_ army?

_Nah. It won’t accomplish anything, except get myself killed._

##### But then… a new President might bring our boys home…

Closer… This soldier could hear snatches of the executive conversation now, but was too immersed in his own roiling thoughts to pay any heed to the actual words.

##### A lot of good men will die, all on the say-so of one man who has no idea how to lead, who’s never served a *day*…

_We’re the ones paying for it - with our blood. Not him. Not *his* blood, of course._

He kept his eyes forward now, for fear of being noticed. The effort not to snarl in the savage heat of his emotions was intense, but every other man standing shoulder to shoulder with him now would be looking just as stern - all at attention, proud and strong, on duty.

_What are we? Chess pieces for a power-hungry desk-flier. Cannon fodder, expected to pull off his personal agenda - whatever the cost. We’re worth less than nothing to him._

Every muscle was taut.

##### It’s not RIGHT!

Closer…

##### I would die for my country. I would die for my comrades. But for HIM -?

Peripheral vision caught the motion of two men almost right before him now: one in full Army dress uniform… one in a perfectly ordinary business suit.

Just another civilian. Nobody special at all.

_He’s a murderer. Pure and simple._

In that endless second, encompassed by the single stride it took for both men to pass by, this soldier came within a hair of reining himself back.

##### And what would *I* be?

##### If I do nothing, will I be a coward? Afraid to fight? Like him?

##### If I do *something,* will I be even *more* like him?

##### Murderer?

##### Or… avenger?

Something snapped. It was as though an unknown force inside of him burst free of unknown bonds and seized total control of his movements despite any objections or second thoughts he might have had. He needed only a single heartbeat to take one half-step forward, breaking rank for all to see, raise the muzzle of his lethal weapon, point it straight at that despised business suit not a yard away, and pull the trigger.

The bodyguards reacted instantaneously; the soldier was tackled and brought down with merciless speed. But just a fraction too slow to prevent his first two shots.

Even as his face slammed painfully against concrete, the soldier felt a strange element of peace.

##### Guess I’ll be dying for him after all…

_But this way, I can live with it. I didn’t chicken out._

_I did it for the boys._

In the center of the shouting, with the weight of several men pinning him flat, he still got a glimpse through the forest of constantly shifting feet.

A glimpse of _another_ man lying face down on the ground, not far off, his face turned away. A man with no one holding him down, yet likewise not moving.

A man in a business suit… a dark business suit looking even darker across its entire back.

*****

"So… what do you think?"

"Great idea! A soldier would be close, and _totally_ above suspicion."

"And he’d get his chance eventually. Those guys are always on hand for any presidential appearance, base or no base."

"Man, he couldn’t miss!"

"One problem: finding the right guy. He’d have to be _really_ mad at Bartlet to go through with it. No way would he ever get _away_ with it."

"Yeah, he’d be executed for sure, assuming he wasn’t gunned down on the spot."

"Which would be rather more merciful than a public trial."

"Point."

"No, they’d take him alive - so that they could question him to within an inch of his life. The Service only kills the assassin when there’s _no_ other way to stop him."

"If he honestly believed it might save his fellow troops abroad… and we could sure make he believed _that_."

"There has to be _one_ disgruntled grunt out there _someplace!_ "

"But if he wasn’t sounded out _very_ quietly, people would hear about it. And if he balked, he could blow the whistle himself."

"I guess a plant in the ranks is kind of unrealistic, huh?"

"What - infiltrate the Armed Forces? Get real."

"I don’t think too many hired killers would be willing to sign up for a three-year tour of boot camp just to fulfill a suicide mission."

"True, that."

"Or maybe if we came up with something a bit different - something that a planted soldier _would_ get away with? What if he was assigned to a perimeter watch instead? Uh… uh - How about roof duty at some public open-air event? Hey, he might get a beautiful shot without even being noticed."

"Maybe…"

"Lot of _maybes_ there."

The ringleader pondered. "Well, we sure won’t mothball it. A little tweaking and it just might work. But first let’s see what else we’ve got here tonight. Who’s next?"

*****

The Bartlet farm spread across several dozen acres of the New Hampshire countryside near Manchester, currently bathed in a bright blue moon - and huge floodlights. Despite its sprawl, the entire perimeter had been sealed by both the Secret Service and the local police… sealed against any attempt at incursion.

At several strategic places close to that perimeter’s extreme limits and under the cloying protection of night, a human shape crouched under cover of shrub and tree. Each wore identical paramilitary attire, camouflaged even to the two-toned paint on their faces and invisible save from a very short distance. Each also wore a small radio mouthpiece, and night-vision goggles that transformed their environments into a surreal emerald green.

They waited, in silence and stillness, with all the patience and stealth of a predator lying in ambush.

Ever so faintly at first, a hum approached from one angle… a hum that soon grew into a chatter. All of these predators snapped to attention. They knew who and what was approaching. Only one craft was ever allowed to fly in this particular airspace. It had to be the distinctive black helicopter known as _Marine One_. 

The chopper glided high over the trees, gradually making its descent towards the helipad that had been installed shortly after the President took office. It _seemed_ to be alone, suspended in mid-air, to all appearances beyond the reach of any attack… but that had to be an illusion.

Even so, whatever support might be accompanying it either in the air or on the ground couldn’t protect it from absolutely everything. Technology had improved in the realm of security _and_ in assault.

One member of the surreptitious welcome committee moved now. He was nearest to the target; not right under it, but certainly close enough. Staying deep in shadow, fearful of drawing attention until further concealment would serve no purpose, he reached for a long metal tube at his feet, and slowly lifted it to his shoulder.

The scope’s eyepiece displayed tiny red figures, constantly shifting, constantly updating: distance, altitude, speed, range limits…

_Now._

He stepped into the open, shrugging off all secrecy, took one more fast reading, and fired. Smoke belched from the back end of this portable rocket-launcher; fire exploded from the muzzle. The deceptively-small heat-seeking missile blasted forth and sizzled straight for that hovering black shape in the night sky.

Anyone doing any research would know that _Marine One_ had some interesting defenses installed against just such an attack as this. The crew was among the very best as well, for similar reasons. Instruments detected the incoming object at once; evasive maneuvers kicked in without hesitation. Airborne countermeasures shot out to one side, trying to distract the heat-sensitive warhead while the chopper suddenly, violently banked the other way.

The guidance system was fooled - temporarily - by these mini-flares, and that temporary blind made all the difference; the missile missed the chopper by a terrifyingly narrow margin, but it _missed_. Its sensors included a "graze" detonator, though, and it blew up a mere handful of yards past, pummeling _Marine One_ with shrapnel and concussion waves.

The whole aircraft lurched and shuddered, losing sky in a hard drop. Even so, the Marines knew their business and were already straightening out, determined to get their Chief Executive _safely_ down at all costs.

However, no sooner had he fired off his first round than the stalker in the leaves dropped the empty launcher and snatched up another just like it. The chopper was still rattled, yet already recovering, when a second death-dealing missile screamed towards it.

Imagine the horror of the pilots, who knew they had no hope of dodging a second assault so soon while the chopper needed another few precious moments to regain its stability - time that it would not receive?

Imagine the shock of the passengers, who would have felt the first sharp swerve and heard the first blast so close and experienced the barrage of debris and detected the near-loss of control, and who knew they had no option except to wait for survival or death?

Imagine the helplessness of the supporting forces, both trailing in the air and following on the ground, who would certainly have witnessed it all and could do absolutely nothing to prevent this nightmare taking place right before their eyes?

The second speeding missile homed in on its staggering target, with no distractions this time, and the presidential helicopter vanished in a sonic-like boom and a fiery cloud. Nothing that fell to earth would be larger than a foot square - of _any_ substance.

*****

"Whew. Now _that_ would be spectacular."

"And final. Nobody could spin it that there might be survivors. Completely unrealistic."

"A good _clean_ job, all right."

"I really like the idea of dropping the first launcher for the second one. Reloading is too much time and effort."

"God forbid that someone invents a portable model with double barrels." Laughter.

"Now where could you find a rocket launcher like that? It would have to be pretty damned advanced, if it’s going to work against a chopper as heavily shielded as M-1."

"What, you don’t think you can get _anything_ through the black market?"

"Well, if the good guys don’t have the majority of armament sources under their eye, they should. Especially something like that; you can’t pretend it’ll be used for anything else. But I guess they’re still attainable in the _wrong_ circles."

"Don’t forget you’d need two per man. A purchase _that_ size would be noticed, big-time."

"Maybe if they were collected slowly, over time, by different buyers…"

"I wonder what the range is on those things. We’d need figures."

"Need a lot of manpower, too. That farm is huge. We’d have to position men along the entire property line. At least then the chopper would come reasonably close to _one_ of them. It always approaches from a different angle than the last time."

"Then again, there are only so many angles to choose from."

"The ambushers could co-ordinate and close in on two fronts."

"No, they’d have to maintain radio silence. Any transmissions could be picked up."

"No problem: if you’re close, you get ready to shoot. Meanwhile, we could have a contact in DC confirm as soon as M-1 takes off from the White House that Bartlet is aboard - not just some other member of the First Family. Then there’d be no need for communications at all in the eleventh hour. The nearest man does the job. Or _men_."

"But here _is_ a problem: M-1 always flies very high, and doesn’t start to descend until it’s well inside the perimeter. You can bet the Service has planned for this kind of attack already."

"What are the odds of actually getting onto the farm grounds?"

"Not good. They’ve got more than floodlights. Radar detection at the very least."

"Isn’t there some kind of high-tech mesh blanket that foils radar? Hey, and heat signatures, too!"

"That would also increase the odds of the attackers getting away. You _know_ the moment that first rocket is fired, someone will go after its source."

"Gotcha. Like they don’t have ground security as well? Not just at the farm, but all along the route!"

"Another suicide mission, then. Nothing new there."

"Or again, the two closest men firing on the chopper from two different spots. Increase the odds even more, both of success _and_ escape."

"It’s definitely food for thought. You can’t get much more dramatic than that. What a way to go."

"For sure."

"Yeah. My idea will seem positively tame by comparison…"

" _We’ll_ be the judge of that!"

*****

The open square was black with people - thousands, if not tens of thousands - all crammed in and milling about. The stage took up one whole corner, flanked by six-foot speakers and ten-foot videoscreens. Flags, streamers and balloons were evident on all sides.

So were police officers. They lingered in the wings of the stage; they blocked off the motorcade’s route; they dotted the ground level, their uniforms standing out among the casually-dressed spectators. Those spectators with the sharpest eyes might have caught a fleeting glimpse of the mostly-hidden snipers on every rooftop around. Crowd-control fencing held the throngs back from a central aisle along which the guest of honor would stroll from his limousine to the podium.

Some people in the crush risked more than they knew by climbing lampposts and garbage cans for a better view. A few really foresighted individuals had even brought their own stepping-stools. And almost all of them had cameras.

One young man teetered on his small folding ladder, well back from the fences, holding a camera with a large telephoto lens that brought him closer to the action than almost anyone else. Or rather, it _would_ have… if it had been an actual camera in the first place.

No doubt the snipers, the constables and the Secret Service advance team were keeping a very close eye on all people with such a height advantage. Said advantage also gave those people an excellent line of fire. If such a person were to suddenly produce a weapon, how fast would they be spotted and _stopped_ before they could shoot?

On the other hand, the feds couldn’t gun down an innocent spectator on the _suspicion_ that he or she might be planning something sinister. They had to have proof - even if such proof constituted an attempt at cold-blooded murder.

The crowd was in a festive mood, enjoying the pleasant summer day and the general party atmosphere. This bloomed into full-bore excitement as the long parade of cars finally appeared. It seemed endless, but finally the sleek black limos pulled up, and the passenger door to one of them was opened. One more pause… and then there he was, the President of the United States himself.

Cameras were already up and clicking away. This included the young man on his small ladder several yards back - or so it seemed. Just like everyone else, he aimed his lens at his national leader and repeatedly hit the shutter button, lowering it now and then to watch with his own eyes and smile eagerly. _Very_ eagerly.

Jed Bartlet basked in the cheers and waving flags. Hands reached over the fences towards him from all sides. Ignoring the ominous bodyguards that all but swarmed him themselves, he personally greeted as many citizens as he could, working his way slowly along the cleared aisle. No one could look at him and deny that he was enjoying every minute of this; he seemed almost reluctant when the aisle ended at the stage’s steps.

The young man was deliberately waiting. Waiting, like everyone else, and yet _not_ like everyone else, for the President to step into full unobstructed view. The mass of waving hands and flags had obscured his view of the walkabout to a small yet vital degree.

Now, though…

Bartlet waved his thanks for this warm welcome. The huge screens to either side zoomed in on his smile, reflecting the live TV coverage. Behold the leader of the free world!

The hidden cross-hairs in the young man’s long lens met over the President’s chest. Right there, not very far away, was a mortal heart that still beat, totally unsuspecting… one single beat away from its very last…

The young man breathed out, breathed in… held it… and touched the hidden trigger on the camera body.

The caliber of this specially crafted bullet was small; the propulsion of this specially constructed camera was great. Any muffled report was lost amid the crowd’s constant roar. A tiny red spot appeared on the white shirt, between jacket and tie, just left of dead center. No violent burst of scarlet; no outward blast of shredded flesh. No sharp stagger backwards, either. Bartlet just stood there, bigger than life on the viewscreens, before the whole world… strangely still now, caught in mid-wave, his face draining - with awful slowness - of animation. Of life.

Then he started to sag.

The cheers turned to screams in short order.

Even as the bodyguards rushed forward to catch their falling protectee and the police rushed forward to contain the now-horrified crowd, the young man had already dropped down from his ladder, as though his precarious balance had been threatened by the sudden panic on all sides. Maybe the snipers had spotted his recoil, or even noticed the coincidental timing of his descent, but too late - he vanished into the throngs as though he had never existed.

Mission accomplished.

*****

"Now that is sweet."

"Not as glamorous, I admit - but it’s safer for the assassin at least."

"For sure there’d be lots of opportunities. Bartlet’s quite the crowd-waver."

"And try finding the killer in a crowd like _that!_ "

"No kidding. He’d get away clean. Especially if he ditched the ladder _and_ the camera."

"Any idea where you’d go to get a camera modified to such specifics?"

"I rather doubt they post _that_ on the Internet. You’d need to be a _bit_ more discreet."

"The ladder is excellent. Just make sure the guy wears gloves when he’s handling it. No fingerprints allowed! Surgeon’s gloves, maybe; he can still use the camera with them on."

"Or else remove them once he’s climbed up. If anyone did notice him wearing them, they’d start to wonder."

"Then again, if he’s going to lose the camera, he _will_ need gloves while holding it."

"Smart idea to have him stay back from the front lines, too. The cops would be seriously watching anyone closer. Thinking about handguns, naturally enough."

"Which lose a lot of accuracy after the first dozen yards or so. You have to admit, the odds are on their side."

"And if someone on a stool pulled out a rifle, he’d need a few seconds to raise it and take aim. The snipers would nail him for sure."

"Security still could, though, in advance. If I were them, I’d be inviting anyone with a vantage point like that to kindly get down before they’re _pulled_ down. Officially. Doesn’t matter if it’s a ladder or a wall. The Service is tops in the precautionary department."

"Well, even so - these stages are, what? Nine or ten feet up? Even someone on the ground would have a fabulous view. You wouldn’t even _need_ a ladder. And the police can hardly go through a crowd like that and check _every_ camera to make sure it _is_ a camera."

"This has _serious_ potential!"

" _Oh,_ yeah."

"Hang on, guys. You haven’t taken your turn yet, boss."

"Fine. Here it is."

*****

A faceless intern wheeled a linen-draped tea trolley into the office of the Speaker of the House. "Good morning, sir."

The man behind the desk looked up on some confusion. "What’s this?"

"Breakfast, as ordered, sir." The intern closed the office door.

The Speaker frowned. "I didn’t order breakfast today."

The intern frowned. "I’m so sorry, sir. I did get the order this morning. They must’ve mixed something up downstairs. Um… would you like it anyway?"

"Well… yeah, sure. I probably won’t have time for lunch." The Speaker waved a distracted hand and returned to his paperwork.

The intern moved the cart closer, which brought him closer as well. Then he reached into his shirt pocket, removed what looked like a very large pen - and aimed it directly at his boss.

The Speaker never saw it. In fact, he might not have even heard its muted "ptew." He couldn’t have missed the sharp prick of the tiny dart in his shoulder, but was sliding towards unconsciousness before he could do more than grunt in surprise.

From the trolley’s lower shelf, which was fully screened by the white draping, a mirror image of the Speaker emerged.

"Move it! The secretary could still walk in."

"Right." They quickly trussed their insensate captive to prevent his slack limbs from dangling, then bundled him onto the lower shelf in turn, making sure he was well hidden. Then the impostor took his place behind the desk. The illusion was exact, from the voice to the suit.

"Where’s the report?"

"Right here." The "intern" produced a thin, bound file from under the breakfast plate. "Your watch is already in synch; it’ll beep when the report is opened." He casually pocketed his deadly silver pen.

"And the President will have about two seconds to live." The new Speaker grinned, showing his teeth in savage delight.

"Just make sure you’re not close by. That chemical really explodes outward."

"I know, already. Leave it to me. You just take care of _this_ guy."

"Leave that to _me_. Phase Two in ten minutes." The planted intern tossed off a light salute. "Have a good day, sir." Then he opened the door and wheeled the secretly laden trolley out.

The impostor picked up the lethal report gingerly, and packed it into his briefcase with great care. He checked his watch, which recorded the time as well; then he consulted the desk calendar for what he knew he would find.

Right on schedule, the secretary knocked and entered. "Mr. Speaker, you have to leave for your eight o’clock."

"I’m going." Absolutely convincing, he picked up his briefcase and headed out.

He got only as far as the outer office area when six or seven Secret Service agents suddenly burst into view and charged straight towards him.

Everyone around froze in dread - or in well-concealed excitement.

"Mr. Speaker, you’ll come with us."

No one thought to argue with _this_ cadre. Clutching his briefcase, the impostor allowed himself to be hustled away inside a very secure circle. No one catching a glimpse of their exit could doubt that some disaster had struck.

Even though he already knew, the impostor asked the obvious question. "What happened?" They piled into the nearest elevator. "My God, not the President -"

"No, sir." The head agent’s expression never shifted, but even their training couldn’t completely mask the regret in his tone. "The _Vice_ President."

By the time they reached the White House, the basic facts had already become public. The "Speaker" manufactured a convincing display of shock as he was ushered swiftly into the Oval Office itself.

Jed Bartlet awaited him. "Mr. Speaker." His eyes were sad, his posture weighted down with a grief that could not be feigned.

"Mr. President." The impostor schooled his face into the same deep regret as he set down his briefcase and walked forward to shake hands. "I’m so sorry. I don’t know how close you and Vice President Hoynes were, but still…"

His Chief Executive looked down. "Yeah, well, John and I didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. Still, he was a damned fine VP."

Bartlet wandered away, clearly fighting high emotions. "He was young. He was talented. He was aiming for this office himself in the next election, and a lot of Democrats would’ve stood behind him. He had all the potential in the _world_ …" His voice trailed off hopelessly.

"Yes, sir. This whole thing is tragic. Who could believe that accidents like this can still happen? With our technology… our _security_ … our medical advances…"

"And yet we are but mortal. I know." The President heaved an enormous sigh. "They’ll be filling me in on the investigation, and the arrangements. I’m sure they’ll do the same for you. Meanwhile…" He stopped, as though the next thought was so painful that he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

The impostor nodded gravely. "In the meantime… the nation has to keep going, and keep its hierarchy in place."

Bartlet nodded just as gravely. "We can’t stop even for this." Pause. "You’re going to have to take on the office of Vice President."

"Understood, sir. Please - call on me anytime."

"I will. But we won’t do anything official until after the funeral."

_Which_ funeral, the "Speaker" mused with diabolical anticipation.

The President glanced at his desk, face pained. "I have a call to make."

"Of course, sir. I’ll be placing one to the widow as well." Then the impostor hesitated, as though struck by another thought. "Oh, I forgot."

Bartlet looked back, brows canted.

The "Speaker" retrieved his briefcase, opened it, and removed the report. "Now is hardly the best time, of course. I was going to have this sent over. But, since I’m here…"

"Right." The President accepted it. The impostor braced himself, but it was simply placed on one corner of the desk. "I might welcome a bit of distraction later."

"I know what you mean." Pause. "Will that be everything, sir?"

"Yeah. For now." Bartlet pocketed both hands, looking despondent and rather less impressive than his office implied. "I’m sure we’ll be chatting again before long."

"Yes, sir." The impostor hid yet another smile. "Take care, Mr. President."

"Thanks."

The "Speaker" stepped out of the Oval Office and started down the hall, accompanied by his drastically increased Secret Service escort. He had to struggle to keep an appropriately somber expression in place. Bartlet might not open that report for an hour, or a day… but eventually he was sure to do so. And no one else would presume to open it first. It would sit there, like a ticking time bomb, right on that executive desk, for as long as necessary…

He had just reached the main lobby of the West Wing - when his watch beeped.

His steps slowed ever so slightly, and he couldn’t resist glancing at the timepiece. At moments like this, two seconds seemed like such a _long_ time.

Even so, eventually they did elapse…

He _really_ had to wrestle back a smirk now, just imagining the reaction when the next staff member happened to walk into the Oval Office.

He went on his way, under protective guard, wondering how far he’d get before the next announcement exploded upon the world. Waiting for the _second_ urgent approach of bodyguards… and the arrival of the judge, to swear him in as leader of the free world.

*****

"Oh, my Lord…"

"Holy God."

"That is - that is _incredible!_ "

##### "Whoa!"

"Just _imagine_ -"

"Man, talk about taking the long view!"

"Well, if we’re going to go to all this bother, let’s not waste the opportunity. Sure, Bartlet is the main man in our little concoction, but why on earth do you want to leave Hoynes in his place? Might as well put _our_ guy in while we’re at it. Up the ante."

"Whew. Anybody want to redefine _drama?_ "

"And the Speaker! I can’t _believe_ we didn’t think of that sooner!"

"I guess some knowledge of the American political line of succession has its uses _once_ in a while, huh?"

"Wait - he has his own bodyguards, right?"

"Sure, but far fewer. He’s just not at risk, unless…"

"Unless something happens to the VP. Right."

"In which case, you can bet Bartlet would need to speak to him soon. Without an audience. Wow, this is _perfect!_ "

"By the way, you didn’t lay out what actually happens to Hoynes."

"Well, I didn’t want to come across as _too_ homicidal."

Laughter. "Right, can’t have _that_."

"Hey, anything that’ll work for the Prez should work for the Veep. His security is basically the same."

"Basically. A bit smaller, but not much. And he travels around even more."

"Nah - it should look like an accident. Otherwise the Service will be on red alert, and there’s plenty of risk already without them jumping at shadows. Just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill tragedy that doesn’t buzz anyone’s radar."

"See your point. Still, this is the nation’s heir apparent. They’d really dig deep before they accepted _that_ simple an explanation."

"On the other hand, after what we’ve seen here today, the four of us should be able to come up with _something!_ "

"There’s a challenge to sleep on for sure."

"And this way everyone will think that Bartlet died of natural causes himself. A heart attack. Instigated by grief, and stress. The Service would never look at our guy twice."

"But wait - won’t this chemical show up in an autopsy? And surely they’d test the report? It’s going to be right there on the floor beside him. In fact, they’d dust _everything_ in that room! I mean, we’re talking a pretty important murder victim here!"

"Even so, how can they know who delivered it? A report like that could’ve passed through twenty hands. Who’d ever suspect the Speaker himself?"

"This would turn into a witch hunt through the White House _and_ Capitol staff!"

"Yike. Anyone besides me wondering if this is getting a bit away from us?"

"Good plots often do. I know they say that simpler ones have fewer angles to go wrong, but complexity increases the odds of success. We just have to work a bit harder to sew up the loose threads."

"You’re on!"

"Now, about those other technicalities: the plant, the pen, the chemical, and the impostor."

"So we’d need a crooked plastic surgeon. There have to be some out there; this happens all the time on TV."

"Oh, like _that’s_ a reliable source…" Chuckles.

"This sure _is_ a long-term project; the facial reconstruction needs time to heal."

"That’s after you find someone who’s a close enough physical match already. And don’t forget, he’d also have to learn to imitate the mark’s voice and mannerisms."

"Not to mention someone nefarious enough, who’s prepared to undergo the surgery _and_ deliver the report."

"For his shot at running the Oval Office? Not too difficult, I think. A lot of guys would leap at the chance."

"A lot of those same guys might also leap at the chance to change their faces and throw off any police trail, too…"

" _You’re_ the nefarious one!"

"Ain’t that the truth."

"Don’t worry about long-term elements; the plant will need that time to work his way onto the Speaker’s staff. They don’t hire just anyone, not _there_."

"But once he’s in, he’ll learn the daily routine, the names of the staffers, appointments, habits… the works. Plus, he could smuggle in an impostor _and_ a weapon easily!"

"That pen is cute. I’ve seen those on TV, too. But why not a larger tranq gun? You can get those anyplace."

"Come on; he’d have a time explaining the bulge in his pocket. But who’d glance twice at a pen? Even a large, heavy pen?"

" _Especially_ a large, fancy one. Everyone knows how the government throws money around. Nothing but the best for _them_."

"And for _us_. It’d be worth it to go the extra distance."

"Now what about this chemical? I’ve never heard of it."

"I read about it in a non-fiction book - written by a Secret Service agent, believe it or not. You treat the actual pages of a report, or newspaper, or whatever. The reader opens it, and this stuff bursts right into his face. Fatal in seconds."

"An _agent_ wrote that? You’re kidding."

"Shooting themselves in the foot! Giving away trade secrets!"

"Yup. Serendipity, what?" Laughter. "Of course, this means they’re on the lookout for that - around POTUS, at least. They always buy newspapers at random to make sure no one can doctor an edition in advance. But a governmental report?"

"Do you think _they’d_ ever think about an impostor?"

"Probably at _some_ point. If the double’s out just to kill Bartlet, not take his place as well, that’s too short a period for anyone to notice any little inconsistencies in behavior and stuff."

"And then our guy just walks out of the White House and disappears."

"Uh-uh - not with his official escort."

"Aw, damn; you’re right. He’d have a hell of a time skipping, even before Hoynes dies. And once he’s POTUS himself? Forget it."

"Unless this becomes another suicide mission, of course."

"Of _course._ "

"But if we go the whole route, the biggest danger is not getting to the Prez - it’s convincing the people who know the Speaker personally."

"His family!"

"Right."

"They’d have to go. And any close friends as well. No one can fake several decades of memories!"

"Wait a sec; back up. If there’s a serial murderer going after people who all happen to be related to the Speaker of the House, who happens to be second in line to the Presidency, you think someone won’t tumble to the idea?"

"Hmmm…"

"Maybe if the killings were spread out over time, both before and after our man gets in…"

"Okay, that’s almost too homicidal even for _me!_ "

"Hey, don’t even _think_ about chickening out now! This is too good! We could set up our own guy in the White House! What a coup!"

"You said it! Man, this is going to knock the lists out of their -"

The entrance to this room slammed open like a bomb going off.

##### "FREEZE! FEDERAL AGENTS!"

All four conspirators spun around fast enough to suffer whiplash; two of them leapt clean out of their seats at the unmitigated shock.

The sight of six men framed on the threshold, wearing black business suits and grim expressions, and leveling handguns with rock-steady grips, paralyzed any further movement.

"I’m Special Agent Ron Butterfield," the obvious leader announced coldly, the most terrifying of the six in this already-terrifying invasion. "And you are all under arrest, for endangering the life of the President."

However astonished the four suspects must have felt, their uninvited guests must have felt at least some amazement as well.

This was a small yet tidy apartment, lit by the brilliant sun through tastefully curtained picture windows. The handsome dining table showed scattered papers with neat handwriting, three coffee mugs and a soda pop can. Nothing else.

And the four people who had met around this table were all women. The eldest had to be under forty; the youngest could not have been over eighteen.

Even as revelation sank in on both sides, the well-trained professionals swept forward with handcuffs. That helped spark some initial reaction from their prisoners.

"W-wait… wait a second!"

"… Arrest?"

"You’re serious?"

"My God, you’re _serious._ "

"Damned right we are," Ron growled. None of the six let his guard down a fraction.

None of the four offered any resistance. Eight eyes were very wide, staring straight down the bores of those firearms. Eight hands were shaking. Four faces were ashen.

"But - but -"

"This isn’t happening…"

"You think… you think we’re threatening the…"

"Wait! Hang on! This is a mistake!"

"A _big_ mistake! Look, we’re _writers!_ "

Ron allowed a very brief pause. "Uh- _huh_."

"Yes! _Writers!_ We write _fiction!_ This -"

"Isn’t real, right?" The two enormous pistols that remained at draw never twitched, even as the handcuffs clicked shut. "We’re supposed to believe that you like to write about presidential assassination attempts just for the _fun_ of it?"

"Well… yes!"

##### "Sure! It is fun!"

"I know it sounds crazy, but -"

"It’s a hobby! It’s - it’s _drama!_ "

"Then explain why you’re writing about the _real_ President, rather than a fictional one? And even _then_ I don’t see any reason to believe you; it could’ve been a simple attempt at camouflage for the real thing."

"It wasn’t camouflage!"

"Oh, it _isn’t_ , now?"

"I mean - I mean, it’s not _real! NONE_ of it!"

"So you like to kill people on paper only. I see." From his tone, Ron clearly _didn’t_ see.

"Come on! This is a _writing_ challenge! That’s all!"

"You’ve _GOT_ to believe us!"

Ron’s scowl remained firmly in place. "No, I don’t. The court does." He signaled to his fellows. "Read them their rights."

They escorted the women out, one agent per captive. By now two girls were in tears, one had been stricken dumb, and the fourth was protesting their joint innocence so desperately that her words ran over each other in a panicked jumble.

The door swung shut on this parade, although its broken catch didn’t quite lock.

Ron holstered his automatic with an air of business being far from over. "Sweep the place, Milo," he ordered to the last agent still present.

Together, they started searching every crevice for any further evidence.

"Good thing we caught that email last week," Milo said absently as he dug through drawers.

"Writers, huh?" Ron sneered, checking the cupboards. "Normal people - _safe_ people - don’t announce on the Net that they just came up with a great way to kill Eagle."

"And then they arrange to meet in DC itself! This would’ve led to an attempt for sure, and God only knows when. A letter with _kill_ and _President_ in the same paragraph? I’m going to kiss the programmer who invented the tracking software." Milo paused briefly. "Who’d have thought they would be _girls?_ And _kids?_ "

Ron shrugged. "Just because they’re female _and_ young, with no known criminal background _yet_ , I’m not ready to cut them any slack. If I wanted to trust people, I’d have gone into a different line of work."

"You and me both."

Long minutes later, Milo gave up. "Nothing. No weapons. No drugs. Not even a beer in the fridge." He shrugged. "This really does look like just a - woman’s apartment."

Ron glared at the table, still littered with papers. "No matter how careful they are, at least their notes can’t hide the truth. That’s why they were meeting, after all."

The two agents sat down and started to read.

"What the…" Milo broke the tense silence first. "Something’s wrong here."

"What? Besides the obvious, that is."

"These notes. Now I’ve busted conspirators before; so have you. And some of them were really methodical. But I’ve never seen anything like this. These aren’t blueprints for an attempt. They’re not even instructions. They’re… _stories._ "

Pause. "You think?"

"Hey, I studied English. Look: proper syntax, spelling, grammar, punctuation… and they flow in dramatic narrative. This is nothing like what you’d expect a bunch of assassins to jot down about how they plan to get their job done - assuming they were stupid enough to commit anything to paper in the first place. They wouldn’t have the time or the inclination to be so descriptive. They’d use just the bald facts. At noon we do this, at midnight we do that… These - are _poetic_ by comparison."

Ron frowned even more deeply. "Could be their first job ever."

"Even if they’re the rankest amateurs, this doesn’t fit. I’m serious. These plans weren’t written to tell someone how to go after Eagle. They were written to be _read._ "

Silence.

Milo rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Do you think there’s a chance those girls really _are_ writers?"

Ron’s lip curled. "Either they’re writers planning a major career change - and one I don’t approve of at all - or else they’re killers with a wild imagination, in more ways than one. And I don’t approve of that, either."

"Or else they have a really weird idea of what qualifies as leisure." Milo paged through another pile. "Man, don’t tell me there are a lot _more_ people out there who do this for fun. What kind of psychopathic mind gets its kicks out of pretending to kill someone?"

"There’s a market for murder mysteries," Ron pointed out with dangerous softness.

"And for political assassinations as well? Quite aside from the fact that it can’t possibly make our lives easier, or the police either, how can _anyone_ see this as entertainment?" Milo shoved the papers aside in annoyance. "Don’t tell me they hold competitions to see who can come up with the most original way to get through our security."

Ron sighed, but this release of air only fanned the flames of his carefully controlled anger. "They’d _better_ not." He forced himself to keep reading.

Resignedly, Milo did the same. "Which raises the next question: even if these kids _are_ harmless writers with a strange choice of topic, are they really a threat to Eagle himself? God knows there are enough of those out there already. _Real_ threats. Do these writers imagine killing him because it _is_ just pretense, and no one actually gets hurt… or because they also have a grudge against him personally, and this is their way of expressing it?"

"Anything seems possible at this point. Maybe they just want an impressive target. Or it could be like a dare. The basic mystery isn’t enough anymore. How to kill a private, _un_ protected citizen has gotten too easy; everyone’s done _that_. You have to admit, it’s more of a challenge to go after the President than the guy next door. On paper _or_ in life."

"Oh, so beating the Service is now a training assignment for budding authors as well as budding murderers. Terrific. I’ll say one thing: I’d be more willing to take this as fiction if they hadn’t used Eagle’s real name. Why not one from a movie or book instead?"

"They’re not good enough. These girls want realism. I don’t know."

"But _why?_ Why this fascination with killing him in the first place?"

Ron snorted. "Makes no sense to me. They like the sight of blood - at least phony blood? They get a charge out of death scenes? They enjoy giving their leader a hard time? They think this is a safe way to thumb their noses at us? They think he looks even _more_ handsome when he’s in pain? You’ve seen his fan mail - and most of _those_ writers are certifiable."

"If _these_ four are insane as well, they still write better than some published books I’ve read. It seems that genius _and_ madness take many forms." Milo shook his head in bemusement. "You know, I used to like cop shows and whodunits myself."

"That was before you pinned on a badge, right?" His boss didn’t spare him a glance.

"Yeah. Now it hits too close to home."

Ron turned another page. " _We_ know the truth behind the TV glamour. We’ve seen people die first-hand. For real. If more folks knew what we know, they wouldn’t want to _read_ those novels, much less write them. And maybe there would be fewer actual murders, too."

"If only." Milo shook his head again at what he was reading now. "Do you ever wonder if this is how these people vent a latent desire for violence? If so, at least it’s better to express it on paper rather than in reality."

"Except that we have no way of knowing that the violence will _stay_ on the paper. If you write about it long enough, you start to believe it. Same with anything else you’re constantly exposed to. It _becomes_ real."

"One for you."

"And here’s another." Ron didn’t seem to miss a sentence before him even as he spoke. "These kids may think they know our actual procedures - but even if they’re inventing security gaps that aren’t there and that would stop a genuine attack cold, they _still_ shouldn’t be writing stuff like this. It’d only take one nutcase to read these _stories_ and decide there’s a good enough idea in them to try it for real. Who needs that kind of encouragement? This isn’t a _game!_ " He really snarled that time… and this man’s fury was a thing to behold.

"Concurred."

Silence, and the rustle of paper.

Then, slowly, Milo sat back. His eyes were riveted to the page in his hand.

"Look at this." Very quietly.

Mental alarm bells ringing, Ron put down his own papers and accepted the note in question. He scanned it rapidly, threshing through the elaborate descriptions for the bare facts.

Then, just as his subordinate had, he too sat back slowly. His eyes were narrow points of laser fire… but that didn’t hide the apprehension behind them.

_"Hell."_ It was a low exhalation of disbelief.

Milo nodded with equal concern. "That one actually might have worked."

Neither man spoke, or moved, for several seconds.

Ron’s mind was obviously churning away, grappling with the realization that one of the four young women just arrested, or perhaps all four working together, had come up with a plausible way to puncture the shield of ultra-modern technology, ultra-trained manpower and ultra-high dedication that stood between the President of the United States and certain death.

"Do you think they knew?" Milo was almost whispering.

Pause. "Well, either they believed they had all the facts to pull it off - on paper only, I hope - or else they were making things up left and right. But that’s irrelevant. If four girls can figure this out in their spare time, just to amuse themselves, then so can someone else. Someone with the willingness and the _ability_ to put it into action."

"I’ll get right on the countermeasures." Milo gathered up the remaining papers. This whole sting had swung from danger to disbelief, to disgust, and back to danger in spades. "We may have struck gold after all."

Ron seemed to be getting warmed up with an idea. His eyes narrowed even more.

"Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to infiltrate this kind of writing group. In case similar inventive minds have accidentally found _other_ loopholes in our net."

Milo didn’t scoff at this rather surprising suggestion. After the first dose of incredulity that mere amateurs might be so smart, it made sense. "Sure. Anyone can get lucky if they keep guessing long enough. We have a right to know - and an obligation."

His boss wore a positively predatory look. "In fact, these websites might help reveal other members who show even _more_ of an unhealthy interest in this sort of thing."

Milo was nodding. "We should encourage writers to abandon such a hobby, anyway. As our four arrestees would attest, it isn’t good for one’s mental health."

"Speaking of whom…" Ron was actually staring into space, testing new waters. "It might even be prudent for Treasury to hire some of these particularly devious individuals."

This time Milo blinked in open wonder. " _Hire_ them?"

Ron rarely ever smiled… but right now the twinkle in his usually guarded vision came close. "As consultants. In case their overly dramatic imaginations can pick up on other weak points. This kind of writing exercise does seem to make for some fairly sharp minds. Doesn’t matter if the exercise _attracts_ the sharp ones, or actually helps _build_ them. Even we can make mistakes; we should accept whatever useful advice comes our way. We can’t afford to be too proud. There’s far too much riding on us getting it right every time."

Now the Special Agent in Charge of White House Security rose to his full six-foot-three height. "Besides, I’d rather have those people working _for_ the President than against him. Fictional, or otherwise."

**********


End file.
